


So Too Shall Springtime Call

by SouthernBird



Series: Shangst Week 2017 [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst, Flowers, Forbidden Love, Gods AU, Greek myth - Freeform, Hades & Persephone au, Hades!Shiro, M/M, Marriage, Romance, Sad Ending, Shangst Week 2017, non Canon, persephone!Lance, shance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: Shiro can tell that his bride is restless, reluctant to fade from the winter to bloom into the glories of springtime, to once more be resplendent with the glow of sunshine and the vividness of flora. When Lance returns to him, Shiro knows that he will breathe with the heat of the sun, will be kissed by the lights of long summer days by the tone of his skin.There is no such light below the feet of gods and of mortals. There are only the rivers and the souls, only the darkness that allows the soft whispers of Shiro’s beloved nightshades to unfurl their petals.--Shangst Week 2017 - Day Three || Above/Below





	So Too Shall Springtime Call

**Author's Note:**

> A long while ago, my friend
> 
> [Andie](https://twitter.com/bakaandie)
> 
> tweeted about a Shance Hades/Persephone AU that I have never really been able to get out of my head. To me, the prompt really called for this. 
> 
> For reference, Lance's final scene is heavily inspired by (spoilers!?)
> 
> [Lunafreya's Departure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQiDl9_w-fU)
> 
> in Final Fantasy XV.

When the nightshades of their kingdom begin to fade with the startling warmth that sings through though the veils of death, Shiro knows that their time has come to an end. 

 

When the snows of the lands above melt away and trickle into the rivers and creeks, when the ice drips from dormant trees and cracks under the coming heat of spring’s delight, it means that Lance’s time to be spent with his husband, the god of the rivers that lead to an afterlife in the meadows beneath the soils and the crops, has drifted once more to the final pass. 

 

Shiro can tell that his bride is restless, reluctant to fade from the winter to bloom into the glories of springtime, to once more be resplendent with the glow of sunshine and the vividness of flora. When Lance returns to him, Shiro knows that he will breathe with the heat of the sun, will be kissed by the lights of long summer days by the tone of his skin. 

 

There is no such light below the feet of gods and of mortals. There are only the rivers and the souls, only the darkness that allows the soft whispers of Shiro’s beloved nightshades to unfurl their petals. 

 

But, the flowers heed not Shiro’s presence, but rather his bride’s, the one treasure he found in the glens of narcissus in tenser times, a time when storm grey eyes met the sight of a laughing luminance that held the aura of all that is growth and beautiful in his azure eyes. Those eyes remind Shiro of his brother’s domain, the one of the seas, remind him of the blue tides that kiss at the shores of their shared domain, that swim with creatures unimaginable, that wash the sands with foam pearlescent. 

 

His heart, though dormant and cold, beat once at the enthralling vision that was more apt to smile at the buds that had yet to reach the peak of their lives than of the shenanigans that the water nymphs were concocting just yards away. Oh, would that the underworld king join him, would that he sit and bask in the melodies of his laughter. Why must it be so callous of an immortal life, to be presented with such a beauty that would be timeless, that would never wither unless confronted with the colds of a world below that only knows of mortal souls and rivers to paradise?

 

Yet, and _yet_ , when eyes met his, when the amber hues that swayed like lazy dancers in the breeze no longer catch his fancy, the grip on his heart birthed the desire to know this one as well as he knew the bends of Styx and of Acheron. It’s akin to an overbearing pain that, for just a moment infinite, he worried might would kill him where he stood, might be an end to a life that knows death far too intimately, but in the radiance of the afternoon sun, the beating of his chest was more the trampling of horses along the landscapes to roads uncrossed than the softness that comes with love at first sight because he was _alive_. 

 

Shiro had abided his position regardless of his longings for the sunlight, however prideful he must be to never reveal his truest of thoughts. This one, this lovely child of the harvest and the storms, when compared to the sun leaves no question which begot to the flame that threatened to burn him so wholly. 

 

It would then be with a mere reach of Shiro’s hand, gray-toned with lack of sunshine and with lack of life, that Lance’s would fit there just perfectly, would feel more like the sky cradling the sea in its long embrace. Praise whomever evoked the curiosity of yellow flowers; it had brought him a lover and a spouse to bless with the gifts of a love that is free. 

 

What an outrage, though, a god of the dead, a god that was meant to tend and to guide the wayward souls of humans and lesser deities to their everlasting resting place, to enrapture a god of the springtimes, of the fertility that will grow forth from the soils of farmlands and woods. 

 

Saddening though when lovely marital bliss came to its end and Lance was beckoned for, when Lance would be summoned so that his presence above ground would return to the planes vernal warmth and flourishing vegetation. Shiro, in a dark pause between forced into duty and longing to keep his spouse, would be a thief of time. _Trust me,_ he had murmured along Lance’s temple in an attempt to soothe away his own worries, his own mistrust of promises so long as his lover ate of the pomegranate, his stained lips evidence of their ruse. 

 

Only one, but he would silently encourage more and more… until the roars of the domains above broke forth in an ear-splitting howl, and Lance realized their folly. 

 

Or, lack thereof, Lance teased his husband in the intimacy of their bed upon his arrival to the realm of eternal slumber. Despite his return to the demesne of the lighter gods, a return that he grew far more hesitant to abide in the years of their marriage, every stretch of time of being at each other’s side is hardly squandered. 

 

But, it is that time once more when the sky turns a more vibrant blue and the sun rays loom over the dirt of the upper lands. It is that time when the flowers that his subliminal lover has sown into the ash of the riverbeds have unfolded their glory in a message that only these adoring companions would ever understand; _forget me not.  
_

Time is a devil itself, a natural enemy to all, even to immortals. He steals away the most precious things and lays them down in fields of plenty or of not. Time is a conquerer of any being, whether they are more powerful than He. 

 

Thus, Lance’s time with him has come to its inevitable end alas, as Shiro has tried in every possible manner to prepare for. It is a snap of his heartstrings every time, and seems to grow far more agonizing over each year. They come here to the gardens of the river for their goodbyes, a grievance both would wish with all that they are to never have pass from their lips. 

 

The flowers barely shift around their feet as their lips press together in a hopeless display of affection, to promise one another of their faithfulness and their affection. 

 

There’s a hitch of breath that catches in his throat, and though his strength may run out as soon as Lance whispers away through the realms, he cannot— will not— show his weakness yet again. However, he is an open tome for Lance to gaze upon in their months together, and he knows each facet of his despondent husband. Shiro regrets love some days, regrets it in the loneliness that seeks him, that weighs down his arms and steals any joy he revels in. 

 

Already, the summoning commences, blue petals swaying with their gloom like the rivers have flooded their steams and their petals in an attempt to wash away what memories have been made. Each smile, each touch, each kiss of lips and on skin, they are all there, present within each eyelet of the flowers. 

 

Then, alone, Shiro will be alone, sitting on a throne of onyx and obsidian without his other by his side. Alone in his thoughts. Alone in their bed. Alone in their kingdom.

 

A touch to his cheek. He returns to his leaving husband. 

 

“Would that I be with you so that you do not relive those dark and lonely days… those days when I did not know you,” Lance whispers in the spaces between their lips, barely a breath apart as his fingertips slip along a jawline, caress the skin there, “and would that you know me every day as you do when the earth sleeps.” 

 

It’s the brevity of the words that sharply pin Shiro down, that keeps his own soul, a rasping, writhing thing down, that keeps him from begging the god in his arms to _stay._ The wisps of petals, now smoky tendrils that drift skyward in lamenting whorls, wrap around the two of them before winding slowly around Lance’s waist and legs. 

 

“I would never hesitate to allow your presence in our domain, my bloom, even when the first buds call for you,” Shiro murmurs back, pressing the lines of their lips together so that their seams mend what is breaking between them. The touches along his jaw move upward into his hair, a comfort feeling that is meant to harbor the pain a little longer, to calm the tides of a storm threatening to wreck ships away from home. 

 

 _Remember me_ is volumes of meaning, of sentiments that must last the months apart, _remember us._  

 

It’s then a smile so sorrowful that parts them once more, the rising smokes languid in their wraps and in their waves, ribbons of blues swirling around Lance’s form like he is an existence of the waters, born from the currents and the depths rather than of life anew with spring’s first breath. How horrible it must be for Shiro to bear yet another departure, but the earth needs the kind hand of life, and he is a god of those retired from their corpulent vessels. Lance is so greatly important to the life cycle of seasons that it would be terribly selfish to beg him to stay far longer than he has— after all, the winters last longer, the leaves flourish their golds and their rubies sooner than ever before. Shiro is to blame, yet he longs to be the selfish brute the living expects him to be. 

 

Let him, please, he begs as the petals drift Lance away into an air pelagic, let him be so cruel to the lives so dependent on Lance’s return to the surface, let him be the tyrant the scrolls and potteries depict of him, let them sacrifice their wholeness as he has to sacrifice his heart. 

 

Let him not be kind; just let Lance stay. 

 

Smoke curls, as though bidding salutations to Shiro as the smile on Lance’s lips ceases to remain, falling apart as though the attempt to be a guiding hope can no longer be held in the brightest of lights. Instead, it’s as though Lance will wander further into a darkness that Shiro cannot reach. 

 

“Shiro…” and with one last gentle call of his name, blue eyes close to the home he comes to know in the bleaker seasons while he wanes into a sea of petal smokes and peacock wisps. 


End file.
